Monday December 21st 2020. 3 days before Christmas Eve. The day I left my old life behind.

This morning, I only truly woke up when I was in the shower. The jet of water against my scalp boosted my nerves, electricity shaking off the sleepy humdrum of the morning. I stepped out of the shower to my laundered towel, soft and gentle on my skin, before wrapping myself in my dressing gown. I stood in front of the mirror to assess the damage. I have asked him not to touch my face; it will only raise questions at work. Yet here I am again, staring into the purple haze surrounding my right eye. Another addition to my repertoire. I tentatively dabbed concealer over my face, carefully using my ring finger to blend the makeup into my skin. I wince when I push too close to my eye, but I have managed to cover the marks again. He’ll be pleased.

Finishing off my makeup, I retreated to the bedroom to get dressed for work. Running downstairs, he was standing at the kitchen island, flicking through the morning’s post. Without looking at me, he held out his arm, holding a cream envelope. “It’s for you”, he mumbled disinterestedly. I took it gingerly, the bruise on my arm. I sat on the kitchen counter, bemused. This envelope had only my first name written on the front. Had someone dropped it into the post-box? The heavy cream envelope slipped open without ripping, and inside was a small piece of paper which held only a time and 3 words; “8:10am. Upstairs bathroom mirror”. I pored over the paper, unravelling its complex meaning from such simple instructions. Was someone messing with me? I glanced at the oven clock; 8:07am. I bit my lip subconsciously; was this a joke? His broad shoulders squared in front of me, his back still facing me. He cleared his throat; “who sent you that?”, he said gruffly.

I learned from past experiences that my business is never my own. What I receive in the post is shared, as are my bills, savings, and salary. He is protective, yet firm. If I lied to him, he would retaliate. If I told him the truth he’d say I had lost my mind. I mumbled an excuse to run back upstairs and brush my teeth. I tore up the carpet stairs, hearing him close behind me. I turned into the bathroom and locked the door, waiting for the banging to start. The bathroom was still steamy after my shower. I looked to the mirror, feeling the door vibrating with his punching. Something was written on the bathroom mirror, drawn into the condensation. I stepped in front of the mirror, trying to drown out his screams, something I probably would regret later. The note was very peculiar;

“Run away from him. If you want a new life, nod your head”

I felt cemented to the ground, unable to hear him anymore. What was happening to me? I nodded my head, unsure of what to expect. Suddenly the writing disappeared, and was replaced with new text;

“I am you.”

I was sure I had completely lost my mind when my reflection appeared again on the mirror. This reflection, however, was not me. She was speaking to me, unharmed by bruises and scars. She looked distressed. “I am about to marry a man I don’t love. You know him; it’s Peter”.

Peter. My old boyfriend. My heart lifted at the thought of him, and how this “me” was about to marry him. I dumbly read on;

“I work for intelligence, and if I marry Peter he will be marked for assassination. He is too good for that. I want you to take my place and marry him today. Run away with him, and I will run away from you two forever.”

This version of me looked hurried; she was clearly under time pressure. She looked into my eyes, imploring me to help her, background noise supplied by his continued shouting. I shook myself; he was going to kill me, for real this time. He was so angry. I felt this potential psychotic episode was safer than facing him again.

I reached out my hand to hers, and it passed through the mirror. I looked at her, staring into my own eyes. Without another second to lose, I jumped into the mirror, into the darkness as he broke down the bathroom door.

The rain fell in sheets from the dark grey November sky, casting shadows of mist and reflections of the night in puddles on the footpaths. The orange luminescence of the streetlights poured onto the droplets, creating dancing lights as the rain drops hit the ground. The showers of rain drove into the Georgian windows of the Cigar Parlour, the white noise behind one of the most lucrative meetings held there in its history. Tucked away on the third floor of a Georgian townhouse on Merrion Square, the Cigar Parlour was one of Dublin city’s best-kept secrets. Hiding above a florist and a bakery on the ground floor, the parlour’s entrance was discretely located behind a portrait of a previous owner of the townhouse, Mr. Thomas Woodberry. The key feature of this parlour was the sheer volume of mahogany used in it’s construction. The ceiling was panelled with stepped layers of the dark wood, extending down the walls where it was broken into floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Shelves in this room were crammed with hardback books of Dublin’s great authors, save for the shelves behind the grand mahogany desk at the bar window. These shelves housed bottles of the finest whiskey and brandy, with glistening glasses resting on polished trays beside carafes for important meetings. The desk was immense, with sculpted lions and angels facing guests seated in the leather seats opposite the Master’s chair. The dark gleaming wood had on odd effect on the room; it reflected the orange streetlights outside the Parlour, bouncing off each post in the bookcases creating an illusion of a bright space. As an added bonus, the reflection of light in this manner aided in darkening the space around the Master chair and desk, an important factor for the lucrative hosts. The Cigar Parlour was known far and wide not only for it’s exclusivity and old-world glamour, but also for it’s connotations with the Reilly family. These native Dubliners carried quite the reputation on their backs, curated over the last 100 years. The Reilly family were notorious bandits and seized their properties just after the 1798 rebellion. After a shootout that shivered the bones of those in Merrion Park, they acquired the Square townhouse from the Woodberry family, who were prominent English settlers dating back to 1500s. Local rumours suggested the Woodberry family had just “settled their debt" to the Reillys after a lack of rent paid for over 300 years. A costly debt, indeed, and this laid the foundation for the Reilly reputation to be carried into 1928, where the rain is continuing to drive into the windows. It is said there is a Reilly in every prominent Dublin establishment; from St. James’s Gate to 16 Grafton Street, where Hugh Brown was in receipt of a large sum of start-up money from an “anonymous donor”. One member of the family who regularly benefited from this partnership was Eilis Reilly; her custom haberdashery pieces from Brown Thomas were exquisite, and she was one of Dublin’s most sought-after celebrities. This would never have come to fruition without her father, Ronan Reilly, who was currently seated behind the Master desk. His custom made leather shoes were resting atop the desk, crossed, with his suit trousers slightly rising up his leg. His suit jacket was open, showing off his waistcoat and beautiful gold pocket watch, overlying his open-necked white shirt. His elbows were lying against the arm of the leather chair, his right hand gripping a cigar beside his mouth, his left hand nursing a whiskey. He was impeccably well-kept, and clean shaven. His kind eyes pierced the darkness, emerald green reflecting his heritage, but his mouth was razor sharp, his words having a cutting edge to them. Currently he was staring across the vast desk at his

“employees”, who were anxiously wringing their caps and nervously tapping their feet against the woollen rug. His eyes glassed over when he was weighing up news from the inner city, but this evening he was presented with a problem. A loose end, as he called it. It was particularly unnerving for those on the receiving end, his expression calm but his eyes murderous. He lifted his feet off the desk and leaned towards the ash tray, tapping his cigar twice. In his infamous deep Dublin accent, he exhaled and murmured “Hunt down the traitor, and bring him back to me alive”, the rain outside growing in ominous intensity.

“Fearless. Powerful. Dauntless.” With a motto like this, it gave fair warning to any logical person that this evening’s activities wouldn’t be a standard “Welcome to University” night out. No, not for the Dauntless Society. You’ve all heard of them; they’re in every college, some more hidden than others. In Galway, the Dauntless Society are a brand in their own right. They are the original secret society, hidden in plain sight under Galway University’s “Official Society” status. Anyone can join them, and get weekly emails about swimming in the sea and potlucks. However, a handful of new members are invited to their Inception Night, held on the Wednesday of Fresher’s Week. Inception Night is infamous across Ireland, not only for its increasingly demanding tasks, but also for the anonymity of the group. They have never been sighted, the only trace of the night they leave behind is the chaos they have forged. Invitations to this exclusive event are rare, but for anyone who can decode their invitation message, there’s nothing to stop you from tagging along. Mike worked out the code two days beforehand, and coolly walked up to the “committee members” at the Societies Fair about 12 hours ago. It was very simple, really; when joining a society, you give your name, student ID number, and your phone number. Instead of your true number, you write down “Dauntless” as if writing it on a keypad. Mike confidently signed up, writing 328685377, his golden ticket to popularity. Little did he know he would be lead to the edge of a roof at 2am in the morning. Mike spent the rest of his afternoon after the Fair preparing himself for Inception. The secret flyer gave simple instructions; “The Graduation Cap. 10pm. Bring a mask”. The Graduation Cap was a famous statue in Galway University, symbolising the abolishment of capping someone’s education. To the Dauntless Society, it symbolised abolishing the capping of personal freedoms, something announced with great vigour by their leader, Dali. Of course, Dali wasn’t his real name; identity protection is a priority, and all members take the name of a famous painter as part of their induction. Dali was powerful; all the confidence of a dictator with the charm of a president. He was loved and feared in equal measure, his mask hiding his lips but his steel blue eyes pierced through the night. He gestured around to his “Brothers and Sisters”, as he called them. 9 in total. “We are a family, and family protects each other”, he rounded off his speech. Mike couldn’t help but feel this was an order of secrecy, a family you would never truly know, and yet would die for. This was what Mike reflected on while standing on the roof of the university library at 4am. The cajoles of the Family echoed through the night as each Brother and Sister took it in turns to leap from the roof of the library to the Concourse building, celebrating another successful Inception Night with bags of chips and tubs of ice cream. Surprisingly, alcohol wasn’t favoured by the Dauntless; it “clouded the judgement necessary to calculate your odds of dying during a Task”. So far Dauntless were proving you didn’t need alcohol to make rash decisions. From leaping into the ocean for a midnight swim to climbing up the ferris wheel for a better view of the moon, the Dauntless Family cruised around Galway two-per-bike, endlessly searching for new opportunities to create chaos. A particular favourite of Mike’s was Rembrandt jumping down the roof hatch of the casino in Salthill to steal baskets of casino chips. These will be cashed in over the next few weeks, channelling the money into the vault of cash for the Family to spend.

The wind carried voices and laughter back to Mike, who was now the last Brother on the library. Matisse had given up at the ferris wheel, and van Gogh had already jumped across to be with her new Family. Mike (now Degas) was edging closer and closer away from the edge, breathing in the deep scent of the night. Mike stared at the precipice separating him from his new Family, and inhaling their cheers deeply, ran across the loose stones before throwing his soul into the night sky. While in flight, he felt a deep silence transcend, drowning out those waiting for him on the other side of paradise, and in that moment, Degas found his Family.

“Screw that, man”. He spoke from the kitchen, hands in his corduroy trouser pockets. He was barefoot, after slipping his knock-off sliders against the warm radiator. His plaid shirt hung loose off his shoulders. “Who cares anyways?”, he continued, staring out the window. The floodlights of the soccer pitch below our apartment cut through the winter darkness, and he was often in the habit of vacantly staring at traffic, his endless mind mulling over his next words like a Christmas wine; slow, steady, careful. He slowly turned to face me, resting his weight on one foot. He carefully pulled his hands out of his pockets, raising them in unison: “He’s getting tunnel vision; just like everyone else in this course. The further into the tunnel you go, the harder it is to step back for perspective”. On this last word, he shook his hands in frustration out from his chest. His soul speaks through his hands. He returns to staring vacantly, but turns his back on me to reach for the kettle. It was time for our evening coffee. Coffee is a ritualistic event in our home; therapeutic, medicinal, mindful. It grounds us, like a gravitational force, something we needed recently. Final year in university proves to be even more difficult without a curriculum to go on, as reflected in the empty bags of coffee beans stacking up on the windowsill beside the bin. This was an evening ritual for us; a study break at 6:00pm. 15 minutes of respite. He whistled as he carried two mugs of steaming coffee into the sitting room, placing both on our glass table before throwing himself onto the cushion beside me. He melts into the blanket and cushions, relaxed, his book on the arm of the sofa beside him. He reached forward and picked up his mug, sniffing the steam and inhaling deeply. He always closes his eyes when he takes the first sip of coffee, shutting out the world for one second. “I can get the honey notes in this one, for sure”. “Why do you think people get tunnel vision?”, I spoke for the first time in 10 minutes. He lifted his chin as if staring at the gods for an answer. He slowly lifted his right foot across his left knee, and cupped his mug of coffee in his palms. “It’s because we all want to be the best. Its hard to go from being one of the smartest teenagers in a room to being with 200 other people just like you. You either sink or swim; I like to think you and I are floating”. He sips his coffee. “It all comes back to perspective, really. While everyone else is in the tunnel, staring towards the light at the other end, I’m stood 20 feet back from the entrance, admiring the view around me”. He always had a way with words. He could entertain me for hours with his anecdotes. “Stress is nothing but a resistance to what is ahead of you, and it's the resistance that kills you. You can’t control what will come up in these exams, so why let yourself succumb to their expectations?”, he finishes, reaching across the table for one of the plastic wrapped chocolates from the tin. His leather belt held up his corduroys; he must have had those trousers for years. Yet there wasn’t even a thread loose in them. Taking care of your clothes reflects the way you take care of yourself, after all. “All I know is, I want more out of my final year of college than a high rank”, he announced, a rim of chocolate at the corners of his mouth. He absently wiped his lips with his fingers, and lifted his mug to inhale the deep scent of his coffee. It wouldn’t be long before our study break would be over. “Knowing your rank should be optional. I know my own self- worth, and its without the help of a number out of 200”. He drained his coffee, and carried his mug back to the sink. His footsteps padded across the timber and tiles, before

replacing his now-warm sliders on his feet from beside the radiator. I must remember to do that next time. I find myself taking on his advice more often lately, while he will continuously stare out the kitchen window, mulling over endless ideas. Who knows what wisdom tomorrow’s coffee break will bring.

“The world will burn”, cries the vintage-clad university students from the rain-soaked footpaths of Piccadilly Circus. Environmentalists perch here daily, representatives of the millennial generation of prestigious London universities waving cardboard signs with Sharpie scribbles, squaring up to the suits of the financial district. Amazing how these worldly 20-something year olds have the confidence to bully the people of London into listening to their cries of global warming, while donned head to toe in fast fashion brands produced by a poor Indonesian child in slave labour. Righteous, indeed. These students are lucky today; they just missed the rain. The concrete paths are already steaming in this oppressive heat, the evidence of the humidity-lightening monsoon showers evaporating into thin air. For spring, it truly is unseasonably hot. Steam warps around the see-through plastic-caped tourists travelling in packs like wolves, peak caps and sunglasses poking out from brilliant purple “rainmacs”, available from Sheila outside the Piccadilly Street NatWest bank for a steal at £20 each. Seemingly these American tourists haven’t quite grasped the currency exchange rate between these two great countries. Tearing my eyes away from the doe-eyed tourists creating a pedestrian traffic jam, I reach down for my espresso cup from the frosted glass of my table for one. Raising it to my lips, I spot a Sky news reporter across the road, setting up with her cameraman. She is resting her jacket on the camera, using her hands to waft under her arms. She has turned her attention to her makeup, using little pieces of cotton to dab the beads of sweat adorning her upper lip. I recognise her; she is new, Alice Something, delegated to the heavy streets to save the national treasures from leaving the studio. I hope, for her sake, she might make it to the silver screen eventually. She’s glancing over her shoulder, microphone at the ready. I follow her gaze, through the English Greta Thunbergs, to a queue, on the other side of the circus. I pause mid-sip, when I spot sleeping bags and camping chairs, and young women filming themselves laughing and talking into their phones. To my right, I spot Emira wiping the table beside me, her hair wrapped up into a loose bun held together with nothing but a pen for taking orders. I turn to her, curious about the queue of screaming teenagers across the street. She looks up from her cloth, and exhales deeply. “A new Krispy Kreme pop-up shop. They’ve had a guest list for their grand opening for weeks; these young women (shaking her cloth in their direction) are queuing in case someone doesn’t show up”. Looking at the 3 empty tables outside this cafe, I drain my cup and ask Emira for another. She smiles, and goes back inside. I’ve been coming to this cafe every day for the last 2 years. Emira and her husband Omar moved to London back in February 2018, with little more than a dream to open a cafe and their lifesavings from Turkey. Their cafe was an all-in-one; downstairs housed the barista machine and a fridge stuffed to the brim with pistachio baklavas and milk sweets, alluring aromas of cinnamon, cardamom, and fresh coffee rolling out of every cup served. The inside of the cafe had little space for more than 2 people queuing at a time, although I never met another soul here bar myself. Upstairs, Aiyla and Mustafa did their homework and played with great explosions of laughter and delight, unaware of the box cafe slowly dwindling in funds. Emira, in my opinion, serves the greatest cup of Turkish coffee in this town, yet all it takes is a new doughnut to draw the masses. It is the people like Emira who will suffer at the hands of corporate-level doughnuts.

It is a sad reality that this is the new world we live in; young people in 80s shirts trying to change the world, people living through their cameras, struggling to make ends meet, whether you are a Sky news reporter or a humble coffee shop owner. What we need, more than ever, is a new perspective. Someone coughs into their scarf while passing me. My phone buzzes with news of a new pandemic spreading to England. How right you were, University of London students. The world will burn.